Damaged
by darkwinggirl
Summary: She counts the days, dreading the moment the green-eyed man will disappear as suddenly as he landed on her doorstep wounded and confused, reaching out a hand and stealing her heart without a word. Loki/OC
1. Rachel

**The character of Loki and all recognizable material from _Thor_ are not owned by me. This is a fan-fiction intended for enjoyment only.**

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He literally fell out of the sky, or so she liked to believe. There had been a crash, she was sure of it, though it was probably just the sound of him collapsing in a normal, non-sky-style on her doorstep.

Why _her_ doorstep? Rachel couldn't imagine. It wasn't even a real doorstep, it was the fire escape. Twenty floors up, in the crappiest Manhattan high-rise single three thousand dollars a month could buy. He must have climbed the stairs, she knew, but how? He couldn't even walk when she found him.

Rachel didn't tell any of her friends the true circumstances of her first meeting with Loki. How he'd been barely conscious, bruised, with half his clothes burned away. She was sure the marks on the cloth were burns, though later, when she saw him shirtless, she was surprised to find the skin underneath was only reddened.

He was moaning quietly when she ran outside to see what the crashing noise was. The sun was just setting; the man lying at her feet opened his forest-green eyes, reached out a slender white hand to her, then gasped, grimaced, and pulled back. He curled in on himself in fetal position, his dark hair hanging lank and ragged in his face. The metal of the fire escape landing was bent beneath him. He must have fallen impossibly hard to have dented it.

Even then, mess that he was, Rachel found him blindingly handsome.

That was the main reason why she didn't call the police.

The other reason was that she was a romantic at heart. Not the romance novel-reading type of romantic, but the type who secretly still held her breath and made a wish as she drove through tunnels. Who had believed in Santa Claus until she was thirteen because she really, really wanted it to be true. She thought life – at least her life – was a story, and she believed wholeheartedly in destiny.

She was the type of person who believed that if a beautiful man fell out of the sky onto her doorstep and begged her for help, she must have been chosen for a reason. Not for a sexy reason, necessarily, though she wouldn't have minded. But she believed she, and no one else, was the one meant to help him.

He couldn't walk at first. Rachel had to half drag him inside, one or two steps at a time, and he barely seemed to realize there was someone else with him. Eye contact was impossible; his gaze kept roaming past her, seeing worlds, people, that weren't there. He spoke to them sometimes. Rachel distinctly heard the word "Brother" at one point, spoken like a plea, and a few minutes later, something about a bridge being destroyed.

An English accent, she noted with fascination. A crisp, educated voice to match his obviously expensive (if ruined) clothing. Who was this man?

Once she managed to get him on the couch and found she could not communicate with him, she took a moment to seriously consider calling some kind of mental health service. Not for rescue – she wasn't afraid of the man, though she knew darn well she should be, and that she was as crazy as he was for pulling him into her home. She was twenty-seven, pretty, and alone.

There were friends she could ask for help. Every one of them would scream at her to call the police. And what if they took him away?

At last his enormous eyes with their childlike lashes met hers, and he seemed absolutely lost, confused by her presence. She didn't move for fear of seeming like a threat; his gaze grew deeper, leaving her mind foggy for a second, before he whispered in his clipped but weak voice, "Rachel."

Had she told him her name? She didn't think so. And she was sure she would have recognized this man if she had met him before…

"You will help me," he said, grasping her hand between both of his. His grasp was sweaty and pitifully weak. "I can see that you will. Thank you."

Tomorrow, she decided. Tomorrow she would go to the police station and ask in a roundabout way if any green-eyed Englishmen had been reported missing. If they said no, she would keep him. Better her apartment than some mental hospital.

Right now he needed ice for those bruises, some food and water, and a good night's sleep on her couch.

After that small effort, he didn't speak a word for a week. It seemed to have taken everything out of him. His face went blank, and though he accepted the water she gave him, she could not get him to look at her.

He didn't move. Just sat, staring at the dead fireplace, mouth slightly ajar, while she pressed a baggie of ice to his bruised forehead and asked him who he was, how he had gotten these injuries.

The open-mouthed expression made him seem very young. He had excellent posture, too – he didn't lean back on the couch. Rachel was reminded of the way her two-year-old nephew watched TV with a straight back and that peculiar expression mixing extreme interest and extreme emptiness. The man even had the pink dew-drop lips of a child.

The man's timing in falling from the sky was awkward. Rachel had work in an hour. She was the pit pianist for the Broadway revival of _Kiss Me, Kate_, a job she absolutely loved. Tonight she could almost dream of calling in sick for the first time ever.

She didn't. She left the man on the couch with a blanket beside him, after carefully explaining where the bathroom was and that he could help himself to anything in the fridge. All that went into a note, too, left on the coffee table in front of him in case he snapped out of his reverie and couldn't remember what had happened. Luckily she had a man's T-shirt and sweat pants in her pajama drawer; these went on the coffee table as well. He would want to change out of those charred clothes.

She made one small concession to caution by taking her computer with her. It was the only thing of real value she owned besides her upright piano. As for that, if he could get it down twenty floors without help, he deserved to keep it.

Of course he wasn't a thief. When she returned from work, sprinting to the door in her eagerness to see if he had magically vanished, or recovered, or torn her apartment to shreds, she found him exactly as she had left him: Staring.

The circles under his eyes made him look haunted, hollow. She wished she knew him well enough to hug him. At least he was willing to accept a few more sips of water from her ridiculous Mickey Mouse mug, the only cup she owned besides a plastic glass with a chewed rim, currently in the sink.

At midnight-thirty she got up enough courage to remove the remains of his coat and scarf. The number of layers she found underneath was disturbing. It had been a hot day and night; he must have been roasting in all that. She removed a cardigan, a vest, and a tie before confirming that, yes, he was completely soaked in sweat.

Pouring out promises that she didn't mean any harm, and requests for him to say something if he had a problem with it, she removed his button-down dress shirt and undershirt. He neither helped her nor protested.

His torso was as thin and pale as his hands, with smooth skin mottled by extensive bruising and reddened in patches, but not a single freckle or scar. Not that Rachel was looking. She shimmied him into the T-shirt as quickly as possible.

Shoes and socks next. The shoes were shiny, real leather, and bore no brand name. The socks were silk. No tag on them, either, or on any of the clothes when she checked. Nor was there a wallet or ID in any of his pockets.

The pants, she decided, could wait until tomorrow.

A gentle hand pressed to his forehead was all it took to convince him to lie down. Rachel closed his eyes for him.

For two hours she lay in her room with the door locked – admittedly with a pathetic lock that couldn't have kept him out for a second if he turned violent. She had never been more awake. Cold crept into the apartment; at four she scurried out to check on the man and toss the blanket lightly over his long, sleeping form. He was _out_. Just the sight of his utter unconsciousness was enough to bring home to Rachel how very tired she was, and after seeing him that way, she immediately returned to her room and crashed.

Morning (nearly afternoon – she was a theatre person) found him sitting up staring again. Still he didn't speak.

Rachel made a real breakfast for the first time in forever. Pancakes and cut-up bananas.

He accepted the food one bite at a time, and more water. She shrieked a little when he rose with no warning, eyes still empty and fixed.

Without a word he turned and went into the bathroom. A minute later he returned to the couch. There he sat.

And there was their routine for the next three days.

She had to leave him a few hours every afternoon. Her second job was also as a pianist, though the nature of it varied. Hotel lobbies, day gigs like weddings. Right now she was making, to her, a ton of money helping workshop two new musicals, one good and one terrible. They were meaningless to her. Yesterday they'd been the focus of her existence. All her mental energy was consumed with wondering who this strange man was and what he was doing in her life.

She really did come to believe he'd fallen from the sky.

Those three days, he never moved on his own except to use the bathroom. He drank and ate what she gave him, never asking for more, never commenting on the quality of the cuisine, even on the night she served him Trix for dinner because, being a true bohemian, she hadn't gone grocery shopping in three weeks. If he hadn't shown up she'd have lived out of a jar of peanut butter for another week. With him to cook for, she finally got up the shame required to shop.

At no point did she tell anyone of his existence.

Aside from groceries, she bought some men's clothes at a thrift store, plus brand new boxers and socks. They weren't as fancy as what he was used to, but she was poor, and she figured he would prefer them to anything used.

Every day he slept when she laid him down, woke before she did, and, when he wasn't eating, stared. She read a lot into that forlorn expression, probably a lot that wasn't there. She imagined him to be the saddest person in the world.

On day three she had to insist he take a bath. Talking to him did no good. She had hoped it would; he was apparently smart enough to know how a bathroom worked and sane enough to use it when he needed it. But he seemed unmoved by her repeated suggestions, and later orders, to get clean.

Yet he accepted her guidance when she pulled him to his feet and led him into the tiny room. She never had to use force, in this or anything. A gentle push in the direction she wanted him to go, and he would get the message and walk there.

He let her sit him on the closed seat of the toilet while she ran the water, getting it the perfect temperature and adding a ridiculous amount of bubbles.

His shirt came off without a problem; she was used to changing it by now. She hesitated at the pants, partially because she noticed that for the first time in forever he was actually looking at her, _seeing_ her, his expression curious.

One leg, then the other. His legs were long and white, as she'd known they would be. She stood him up. He was still a little unsteady from his injuries and sickness; he balanced himself with his hands on her shoulders as she peeled off his underwear, desperately averting her eyes.

She was very proud that she managed to not peek once while sinking him into the tub.

The staring blankness returned to his eyes. He sat completely upright, as if unaware he was in water. Rachel bathed him without attempting conversation, running a washcloth over his narrow back as gently as possible, whispering apologies when he flinched at the contact with his bruises.

Twice she shampooed him, marveling at the feather-softness of his hair. No conditioner, she decided. If she used that, he would get greasy and they'd have to do this again in a day or two.

She rinsed him with the showerhead on the lowest possible water pressure, loving the way the suds slid down across his thin shoulders and in slick lines down his chest and back.

The most challenging and exciting part of the experience was shaving him. His eyes followed the razor with fascination, and she was thrilled to have his full attention for once. His beard wasn't long for three days' worth of growth. It was just a shadow, really. But it didn't suit him at all. This man was a class act in his other life, Rachel was sure, and class acts did not have facial hair.

When she stood him up and toweled him off, he raised his arms wide to help her get his armpits. The profound silliness of the gesture hit her right as she was recovering from her extreme nervousness, and she got the worst case of the giggles she'd ever had, collapsing into near helplessness. He stood over her, towel around his waist, head cocked to one side.

At the corner of his mouth, a tiny, one-sided smile cracked.

After that his eyes followed her everywhere.

The next day he fed and dressed himself, and even got up once to refill his mug of water at the sink.

He began to sit at the window instead of on the couch, pressing his forehead up against the glass. A puppy waiting for his master to come home. His green eyes were so clear and huge, Rachel swore she could see Manhattan's skyline reflected in them when the morning sun first cleared the rooftops.

She talked to him all the time, though he didn't talk back. Now that she was over his novelty, she was able to focus on her shows again, and she would prattle to him about her worries for the new numbers, or stories of what had gone wrong onstage in _Kiss Me, Kate_.

To her delight, she discovered that he loved listening to her practice piano. He would come and stand behind her, almost close enough to touch, sometimes even bending over to watch her fingers move. She scooched over once to let him sit by her on the bench, and he eagerly accepted.

They spent several hours like that over the next few days. Rachel had only to begin playing, and in seconds the man would take his place beside her, alert and interested for those brief periods, after which he would quickly sink back into his staring melancholy.

But he was getting better, Rachel was sure.

He had been living with her a week and a day when she closed her score, rested her head on his shoulder, and reflected out loud, "I don't even know your name."

"Laufeyson," was his strange response.

Rachel jolted a little. He had spoken! But the word was so muddled, it didn't sound like English. "What?" she asked stupidly.

He blinked once, twice, appearing surprised at himself. "Forgive me," he said, his voice syrupy-smooth, his diction perfect. "I don't know why I said that. My name is…" Now he hesitated, frowning at the word that came next. "Loki."

"Loki?" Rachel repeated, one eyebrow raised high.

"Yes," he said. "I think so. It's a strange name, isn't it?"

Rachel found she had been gripping her score since he spoke. Now she released it, smoothing the crinkled cover. "Not what I was expecting. You're English, I was expecting a Benedict or a Percy. But it fits you." She kept her voice gentle. She was always gentle with him. He was so fragile. "Since you dropped out of the sky, I've been wondering if you weren't some kind of angel. A god is even better. God of mischief! That's you, Trouble. It's perfect. Do you remember anything else about yourself?"

His mouth flattened as he thought, and Rachel could see the effort he was making to dredge information out of his damaged mind.

"Very little," he said at last. "I remember I had a brother, but I can only see him as a child. He was blonde. He wanted to be a king when he grew up. There are flashes of strange… things that can't be memories. Fantastic creatures, castles in the sky."

"A bridge?" she asked. "You hallucinated a bridge on that first day."

"Yes! A bridge made of…"

He stopped.

"In any case. I know several other facts. We are in Midgard, on Earth, in the United States. Manhattan. Your apartment. It is 2011."

Rachel carefully did not react to the word _Midgard_, which the man, Loki, threw out with as much matter-of-factness as the word Manhattan and an obvious unawareness that it was a strange thing to say.

"I know that I could play every note of the song you were practicing. I know equally well that I have never had a piano lesson."

Rachel stepped aside and let him demonstrate. It was not the least bit surprising to her that he played beautifully, better than she did. His long, tapered fingers danced over the keys with care and control. The song had been written only days before for a new musical; he could not have learned it before coming to her apartment. Noting his posture once again, she wondered if he had been a concert pianist in his other life. He'd look terrific in tails.

"Yet," he said, dropping the song after she'd gotten the picture, "We are no longer equally ignorant. I fear I've not had the pleasure of your name."

"You have," Rachel said. "You know it. You called me by it the first day you got here. Don't you remember? You called me by my name and told me you knew I was going to help you. And thanked me in advance."

"I have no memory of that."

"Oh." Rachel didn't know what to think. All this time she had assumed that he knew of a connection between him and her, and had been keeping it secret. She had been eager to learn it – to learn why _her_, of all people in the world. There must be a reason, she decided, and he must have known it at one time. The trauma of whatever happened Before (she was sure now that for Loki the time Before meeting her must come with a capital B) must have erased it from his memory. Maybe it would return.

"My name is Rachel," she said. "And tomorrow I'm going to get you your own key."

Hours later Loki slipped into another staring funk, but Rachel knew he would come out of it soon. And sooner the next time.


	2. Loki

Gaps and more gaps were all Loki found. He could browse through his memory like a book, page by carefully turned page, and each was blank. There was the occasional word or image that popped out, but these, he knew, could not actually be part of his past. A giant blue man growling down at him. Ice shooting from his fingertips. A vision of himself, no, two of him, in green armor, each holding a wickedly bladed staff and laughing loudly before vanishing. A golden throne.

There was nothing to indicate where he got his extensive knowledge of human society and history, nor why he thought in those terms – _human_ history, as if he weren't human.

Maybe he wasn't. He was distantly aware that most people could not study their own minds in this way. Also, most people could not learn to play piano simply by watching another person do it for a few hours.

He was less aware of the other strange things about himself.

For example, from time to time he effortlessly read Rachel's mind, and it never occurred to him that it was an unusual thing to do.

Loki liked Rachel. An unfamiliar feeling, liking someone. Rachel had a light, fluttery mind, completely free of malice. The occasions where he slipped into it were always pleasant. Mostly she thought about songs, and wondered about Loki. Her occasional fantasies about him didn't disturb him. In fact, he found himself amused – the fantasies were completely vanilla, the sweet girl. Mostly about kissing. Though he could not remember specific examples, Loki was sure his own sex life had been both more exciting and more frightening than anything Rachel would want to participate in.

Occasionally he found himself concerned for her, and that was a feeling as unfamiliar as _liking._ Rachel was too thin. She didn't take care of herself, only eating when she remembered to, and then eating the colorful, processed foods humans mostly gave to children. She had no money. It all went to rent, she said apologetically when he asked about the holes in her shoes. A brush with her mind told him that she had worn those shoes almost every day for two years and that it would not cross her mind to be ashamed of the fact. She had never had money.

Loki was certain that whomever he had been Before, he had been rich. If liking someone was unfamiliar, needing to worry about food and clothing was absolutely alien to him.

Fortunately Rachel didn't need much to be happy. The only things she fantasized about but could not afford were decent tickets to Broadway shows – especially out of reach now that she was feeding Loki as well as herself.

Grateful for Rachel's help, and unhappy with the realization that his presence hurt her in this small way, Loki contemplated ways he could contribute to their little life.

Rachel had left a twenty-dollar bill on the counter for him. "In case of emergency," she said. He retrieved it one day – who knew what day, he wasn't certain how long he'd been here – and studied it carefully. For a blank and ravaged mind, his still worked very well. He observed every detail. The tiny, scrolling artwork, the crosshatches in the background, the somber face of Andrew Jackson (_Seventh president of the United States, but how did he know that? Who had taught him?_). Loki absorbed its appearance, front and back, for several minutes.

Then he made another one.

It was natural. He knew how to do it, in the same way he knew how to talk. He peeled the bill in half, as if peeling a bumper sticker from its protective backing, and there were two identical bills in his hands.

He made a second and a third. Soon there was a pile of twenty-dollar bills sitting on Rachel's coffee table.

Exhaustion smashed into Loki, hard as a brick in the face. Magic took lots of energy. Rachel hadn't been feeding him well, though she did the best she knew, poor thing. Loki was used to feasts, tables weighed to breaking with whole roasted golden harts and manticores. Rachel thought a single peanut butter sandwich on Wonder Bread was a meal, bless her heart.

Wait.

Manticores?

Loki felt himself slipping into his terrible waking dreams; he was powerless against these fits, though they came less and less often now. He awoke to find the sunbeams were in different positions – hours had passed – and Rachel was standing across from him, staring open-mouthed at the pile of money.

He told her he had found it in an inner pocket of his coat; he was even able to magically fabricate a new pocket in the coat and a torn envelope, distressed enough to look like it had been holding a thick wad of bills for weeks.

Telling her that made-up story, he had quite a revelation.

Lying was the easiest, most natural thing in the world. The lie felt wonderful – like coming home from a long journey.

Loki realized he was not a nice person.

Unfortunately the lie, good as it felt, was not terribly compelling. He was out of practice.

There were three thousand dollars on the table, and Rachel wouldn't touch it. She thought he had stolen it.

Loki found her emotions in that moment terribly interesting. The sight of the money inspired a little nervousness about getting caught, but that was nothing compared to the wave of lust coming off her. She badly wanted the money. Not all of it, just a few hundred dollars. Enough for third-row seats to _Book of Mormon_, _Wicked_, _How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying_, all the best shows she'd been dying to see but couldn't afford. Her want for them became nearly tangible, seeing the bills on the table, her dreams within reach.

Yet she didn't take the money. Didn't even seriously consider it. She stacked it, put it in his envelope, and placed the envelope "back" in his coat pocket.

"It's none of my business where you got it," she said. "But I can't accept it. In fact, I didn't see it. Okay?"

He nodded, a little hurt, and she kissed his forehead.

Dinner that night was generic brand macaroni and cheese, served on mismatched plastic plates Rachel had inherited from a college roommate four years ago.

Loki's immense surprise at her refusal of the money told him as much about himself as it did about her. He wondered in hindsight who he must be, to pay for services in obviously ill-gotten money and expect it to be accepted gratefully and without question.

Rachel had wanted the money and did not fear getting caught by the police. She simply thought it was immoral to take it. So she refused.

Loki felt he had never before met a person who would do such a thing. Why hadn't he? Who were his friends?

He got another dose of her confusing morality days later. This time she utterly confounded him.

They were beside each other on the piano bench again. She was running through the same song for the tenth time; he could have played it himself by now, but he enjoyed watching her. Her fingers were short for a professional pianist's, and her form was not good. She held her hands flat, not round like she should, and she hit the keys too hard. Still, she almost always found the notes, and sitting beside her, watching her mind chasing them down, always half a second from a mistake, was pleasant in the way that watching a warm fire was pleasant.

Then Loki noticed that her thoughts had turned to him. She was wishing he would kiss her. Wise, he thought, to do what she wanted.

"Rachel," he said quietly, so she would have to lean closer to hear him – an old seducer's trick that he was certain he'd used before. Her fingers slowed, then stopped. He laid a hand over one of hers, enjoying the crackle of excited energy that flowed out of her, the pleasure he could give her with a simple touch. "You have been very kind to me. Fed me, clothed me. You saved my life."

She blushed.

"And…" he wove his fingers through hers, his acute, more-than-human senses picking up her racing heartbeat, the rush of adrenaline flowing through her veins. "You play beautifully. Your talent amazes me."

Another lie. Gods, it felt good.

"Thank you," she shyly said to her lap.

"Rachel, look at me," and she did. "Beautiful. You are lovely."

That wasn't a lie. Her hair was unbrushed today and her clothing fit her poorly, but she was young and healthy enough to overcome those handicaps, and her kindness was reflected in her features. It was a natural, unaffected beauty.

Kissing her was a pleasure. It needn't have been; he would kissed her even if she were ugly and he disliked her, to earn her trust and secure his place, pay his debts. But Rachel made it more than that.

Their lips met, and her happiness flowed into him. Those small hands of hers rested on his chest. He cradled her head gently, bending her back, helping her let go of her fears. Her lips were soft, wet, and when he brushed his tongue into her mouth he found she tasted of strawberries.

He moved to her neck; she gasped with arousal, grabbing at his collar. In one move Loki lifted her off the bench – he was stronger than he expected, or maybe she was simply light – and placed her on his lap. They were face to face, and she was straddling him, her jeans grinding against him. Her need was overwhelming and refreshing, wine to his parched, lonely soul. An alarm went off somewhere deep in his head as he tore at her shirt, getting it off in one frantic pull.

This wasn't an act. He wasn't pretending. He knew he ought to be. But no, he genuinely wanted this girl – this slim, kind creature in the purple cotton bra who kissed him without pretension, without fear.

But she stopped. _She_ did.

He felt the hitch in her emotions, the powerful hesitation, almost the same moment she did.

"Loki," she said, the word catching in her throat. She was hanging onto his back for balance, and her spindly arms were shaking from longing. "What you just said about me being kind to you…"

He bent his head to her breasts, drew his tongue up the valley between them. She squirmed against him at the sensation, torturing him, before gasping, "Stop. Stop."

"About me saving your life," she continued once he'd raised his head and managed to slow his own heartbeat slightly. "Giving you food and whatever. You understand you don't owe me for any of that, right?"

Loki didn't understand. He didn't know what to say.

Rachel's big eyes searched his, and apparently didn't like what they found there. She pulled away, untangled her legs from his waist. His hands stayed on her arms, holding her facing him. He didn't want her to leave.

"You don't owe me money," she said. "And you really, really, _really_ don't owe me sex. That's not what I… That's not how I want it to be."

Loki knew very well that this was the moment he ought to lie some more – to swear to her that the thought of paying her back this way had never crossed his mind, that he would never consider such a thing. But Rachel looked so frail, half-naked, with her hair a mess and tears in her eyes, the lies all tangled on his tongue. He resented her in that instant, for taking away two of his greatest pleasures at once.

"Look," she said. "Thank you. For… that. But I'm going to bed now. If you want this, we can wait until you're all better and you get your own place. So you don't feel obligated. Okay?"

He knew that she didn't want to say those words. She wanted to get right back on the piano bench and finish what she'd started. The words came from a place of duty. She reminded him of Thor, in the best possible way – a vessel overflowing with honor.

_Who is Thor?_

He couldn't remember, and the thought escaped as quickly as it had come.

Rachel went to her room and did not come out at all that night, leaving Loki wondering, for once, not who he was, but who in Helheim _she_ was. What could one do with a girl like this? He had offered her everything she wanted, and she had not taken it.

What did she want from him?

It couldn't really be nothing, could it?

No one offered something for nothing.

Every time he had read her mind before it had been accidental or automatic. Now he turned to the wall that hid her from him and probed deeply, with purpose.

She wanted to have sex with him, that was clear enough, and clearer now.

But more than that, she wanted him to be happy.

He saw her fear – that he felt pressured, that _he_ – not she, but he – would regret it, or would somehow be upset by it.

He saw that she was not ambitious. She did not aspire to money or power, though she did want to fall in love. The job she had made her happy.

An unambitious, unselfish mind. Loki was sure he'd never seen one before.

Rachel's thoughts were so foreign to him that he had to wonder: In his life Before, had he ever, even once, slept with a woman who didn't want something from him?

Had he ever met someone who loved him – because Rachel loved him fiercely – without any expectation of being loved in return?

He saw that he might stay for years in her home, and she would never ask him for rent. That he might never kiss her again, and she would never dare to expect it. And she would love him anyway. She would be his friend if that were the only role he offered her. Even though she wanted more. Even though she had every right to demand more.

Disturbing. Clearly he was living with a lunatic.

The fire escape opened onto a city bright with traffic. Loki stared down at it, tasting the engine smoke in the air. He had never driven a car. But he knew how they worked; knew also how the traffic lights blinking red, green and yellow at the intersection on the corner worked. Not just what they signaled, but their inner workings as well; the sensors, the electricity, even the chemical makeup of the color gels coating the light bulbs.

Yet the mystery of his mind was not interesting to him. Rachel, lying one room over, was.

The man he used to be had chosen her. He must have. There was no possible way he could have ended up on a twentieth-story fire escape, at the door of surely the only woman in New York who would have taken him in without question, by random chance.

Or maybe he hadn't chosen her, but someone else had chosen her for him. Damn, he wished he could remember the slightest corner of the past – the real past, not the past that haunted his dreams, the impossible, miraculous world he imagined every day, which was beautiful but sickened his heart with hatred at the sight of it in his mind's eye.

Loki didn't sleep that night.


	3. Love

**A/N: This is the chapter that raised the rating. Enjoy, or don't, at your own risk.**

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Rachel worried about him, always.

He was gone more and more now. Sometimes all night.

She'd been happy when he first began walking outside the apartment, happy for him, that he was feeling well enough to do it. His bruises were all but gone now, so he wouldn't draw stares.

The first few times he had asked her to come with him. They walked hand in hand, a few blocks at a time. He needed it; still, a month later, he had fainting spells, or unpredictable moments where he would forget where he was, and apparently how to speak, and she would need to be there to guide him home.

These were few and far between now, and Loki was enjoying his freedom doing god-knew-what.

Three thousand dollars' worth of twenty dollar bills on the coffee table. And that was before he'd been able to leave the apartment. What kind of trouble could he get into out in the world?

Often now she would come in and find groceries on the counter, in the fridge. Meat and vegetables, neither of which Rachel ate if she could avoid them. Loki was so strange.

Her closet was now full of his clothes, real clothes, not the crappy thrift store ones she'd bought him. She couldn't bear to look in there, it made her too nervous. Once she was unfortunate enough to see the price tag hanging off a blazer sleeve. The minor heart attack that resulted half-killed her.

Where was he getting the money?

Several of her friends had met him now; he was normalized enough that he could sit quietly through a movie night, or a pre-workshop home rehearsal with a singer or two.

He had cracked that tiny half-smile when she introduced him, without clearing it first, as her banker boyfriend Nigel Greenstone. Later, he said it was a good idea – for all he knew, he was a criminal with the whole world looking for him. Loki was an unusual enough name that any mention of it couldn't be a good idea at this point, with him still confused about his past and his physical progress so slow.

The friends she had over for the movie, two couples (one gay and one straight), had a lot of questions which she settled with a pointed "Nigel doesn't like to talk about himself," and they got the hint. Still, he got googly eyes from everyone all night. Of course he did. It wasn't every day you met someone this good looking.

"Nigel" flirted right back if he got the opportunity, much to Rachel's surprise and jealousy. She tried to hide it. His right. He could grin charmingly at whomever he wanted, laugh at whatever stupid jokes he found funny for some unholy reason. She had told him he was free, and she meant it.

Neither had forgotten the incident at the piano. He didn't join her on the bench anymore. And he was gone so often. She knew that one day he was going to vanish altogether.

The knowledge saddened her, but she did her very best not to show it. They never talked about where he went, and when he came home, they were still friends. Together they watched movies on her computer, her pride and joy, a $250 netbook with a seven-inch screen. She picked the movies, and she had a feeling he didn't really watch them. Lost in thought, always, her Loki. But his presence was comforting.

One night in the shower she contemplated losing him. It shouldn't be so bad. He didn't contribute anything to her life but himself and the fascinating mystery of his origin. They rarely even talked – or rather, _he_ rarely talked. She talked at him. But she could talk _at _a dog or a cat.

She had lived alone for years. Where had the attachment come from?

The answer, of course, was that it had been there from the first moment she'd seen him reaching out to her on that stupid fire escape. He was hers. She wanted him around… well, if not forever, then for a long time. Her mystery man.

A tiny sob jumped out of her throat, surprising the hell out of her.

And Loki was there.

How he'd gotten the door open without her hearing it, she had no idea, but he pushed aside the shower curtain and had her wrapped in his arms before she had a chance to be surprised.

"Stop this," he whispered in her ear. His breath was cool on the tiny water drops. "Stop thinking this way."

She was naked; he wore a button-up shirt and slacks, but still he held her to him, and the water from the shower soaked them both. The sobs were still in her throat, and though she didn't understand what was happening anymore, she let him comfort her, rock her side to side.

"I won't have you crying, do you understand? Not over me."

She thought she'd been so quiet. He must have heard the sob.

Rachel wiped her face on his shirt, laughing at herself. "Got it. No more crying."

He released her and held her at arm's length, examining her breasts, the drops of water rushing down the lines of her stomach muscles, lower. Rachel found herself trembling in spite of the warmth.

"You don't have to-" she began, intending to repeat her piano bench speech to him.

"I know. I'm quickly learning that in this world I don't _have_ to do anything. I can do exactly as I please." And he pressed his cool lips to hers.

God, he tasted good. She could have stayed in that moment forever – her tongue against his, the water running between them, the feel of his hard body under his wet shirt, his hands on her breasts, her stomach. He got his shoes and socks kicked off at some point in that hazy, confusing moment, and then he was in the shower with her, still fully clothed, pressing her against the slick tile walls, one knee between hers.

At the touch of his finger inside her, she almost passed out.

They took a long time, that first time. He went to his knees and made her come before she'd even gotten his shirt off. Her fingers clawed through his hair; its feather-softness was just as she remembered from the first time they'd been in this bath together, him practically an invalid, her his shy, embarrassed nurse.

Tongue working all the way, he moved up her body, back to her mouth, and finally, _finally_ she got her shaking hands on all those buttons of his. There seemed to be a hundred of them before he was bare to her.

He was hard and long, and it had been a while since she'd done this. It hurt at first; they were both desperate, thirsty for it, and he slammed inside her, pinning her against the wall with her legs around his waist, in a single, brutal motion.

Their groans of pain and pleasure were identical.

The water ran the whole time. Minutes, hours, seconds swirled in Rachel's head during their lovemaking. How long had it been? Loki seemed to know _exactly_ what she wanted. She thought of his mouth on her breast, and there it was, his teeth clutching her, dancing on but never crossing the line into pain. She wanted his fingers running down her back, digging into her, and there they were. He crushed her into him until she cried out, even though she wanted more.

And he seemed to be having as lovely a time as she was. The green of his eyes was almost swallowed by the extreme dilation of his pupils, the few times she managed to meet his eyes between the kissing and gasping and urgent attempts to pull closer, closer, closer to each other. His mouth was everywhere, hungry for her, moaning ravenously if their motions pulled them apart.

Their foreheads were pressed together when he came inside her. They were breathing the same warm air into each other's mouths.

Water pounded onto his back; they lay in the tub with him on top of her, taking the brunt of the shower. All that reached Rachel was a fine spray on the face; Loki kissed the drops that formed on her eyebrows, threatening to fall into her eyes.

Both were weak and shaken.

"You must forgive me for barging in like this," Loki said, sending them both into nervous laughter. A sigh escaped Rachel as he slid out of her body.

He didn't leave. They shared the most wonderful bath Rachel had ever had. They washed each other's hair and rubbed soap over every inch of each other's bodies, rinsed it away and tasted the difference.

Later – two hours and three times later, to be exact – they lay in Rachel's bed, still naked, Loki's arm wrapped around her shoulder.

"I want you to know something," said Rachel. "About why I was crying."

Loki sighed down at her. An affectionate sigh, with a crooked smile attached. "Yes?"

Rachel chose her words carefully. "Whoever you are, Loki, I've got the feeling it's somebody really important."

"Do you know," said Loki, "I've the very same feeling."

"Well, that's not good," said Rachel. "Not for me. Because I'm not important."

He tried to interrupt her with a kiss, but she pressed a finger to his lips.

"I think that some day, some day soon, Loki, you're going to remember who you are. You're going to remember that your place isn't in a twentieth-story one bedroom apartment with a random girl you barely know."

Green eyes sparkled down at her. He was listening carefully.

"I believe," she said, "that on the day you remember who you are, you're going to disappear from my life the same way you came into it. Bam, all at once, maybe right back into the sky. I want you to know that I expect it. That I'm okay with it. You're something special, and you can't wait around for me. But please promise me something."

He nodded. The three stress lines that often appeared in the middle of his forehead when he was having his staring episodes were suddenly carved deep. Rachel hoped that meant he was taking this seriously.

"Just promise me that before you go you'll say goodbye. Leave a note, something, anything so that I don't wait for you. That's what worries me every time you leave. That it'll be the last time and I won't know it and I'll be here wondering forever. Wondering whether you're dead or whether you've left. Let me know. Okay?"

Loki nodded again.

He dug his fingers into her hair, pulled her up into one more kiss before they were finally able to sleep.

Rachel liked that he didn't try to argue with her about his eventual departure. They both knew she was right; lying about it wouldn't make either of them feel better.


	4. Goodbye

Loki spent most of his days underground now. Manhattan, he found, had a thriving network of people like him. Magic users, lost, damned, cursed people, he found them all, befriended them easily. A man who could manufacture money would never lack friends.

But friends weren't what he wanted. Rachel was enough for now, and these poor sick used-to-be-people were a poor substitute for her. What Loki wanted was memories.

There were charms that could be purchased, charms that worked, but only in small ways. One might open a single day of memory, and you'd never know which it was until you went through every day in the blank memory book that was your head. Or the memory might be revealed in a dream.

He had enough bits and snatches now to know that at least some of what he saw in his nightmares was real. There were other worlds, a city in the sky. Asgard. It was tainted in all his memories, covered in a nearly visible layer of scum that stank to him, making him want to turn his face and pretend he'd never heard of it. Something terrible must have happened to him there.

The charms weren't enough, though, so he was working on bigger plans. Deals and back-deals. He found he was talented at getting what he wanted. Promises, lies, dripped off his tongue thick and bright as blood. This, he knew, was the kind of person he used to be. Gods, what had he been? Some between-world drug dealer? A mercenary wizard, a vizier? In some of the flashes he'd gotten back he saw himself beside a king. Rachel had intuited that he'd been a "really important" person Before. He never doubted it.

Days, he worked. It was gritty, dirty work, rewarding in its way because he was good at it and felt he was getting closer to the goal of discovering his own identity. But nights were the best.

Nights he spent in Rachel's bed. Rachel's arms. Warm and soft. Rachel's mind. Loving. Forgiving.

She knew he was up to no good, slinking off out of sight and reappearing at odd hours, sometimes wounded, sometimes angry, sometimes carrying a box of money or, in one unforgivable slip-up, a box with blood dripping out of it. He'd had to erase her memory that time. It had hurt him immensely; deceiving her was no pleasure.

Gods bless her, she understood. Understood that he was not of this world, that he had to do things he could never tell her about. She craved his presence, his love. Someday, his goodbye. Not too soon, one could hope.

The sight of her big, silly smile under the sheets drove him wild. Her arms around him, her joy, her ecstasy when she came and her pride at being able to please him. The frown on her face as she chased down those notes on the piano.

And her continued unwillingness to accept his money and go see a play with him. That itched, it really did, but he had to admit he loved her more for it. Damn her and her honor.

Wherever he went once he found out who he was, it was sure to be some place she would not follow, even if she could.

Loki was a terrible person. Really, worse than he'd dreamed that first time he discovered he liked telling lies. Often in the underground he killed without hesitation. Told lethal lies with a huge, friendly, innocent smile. Kissed and groped a few women who preferred that type of negotiation, though so far he had managed to avoid having it go further.

Some nights he was downright shocked by his own actions – often committed instinctively, like the time he sent a torturous lightning bolt down the throat of a Gremlar demon who tried to swindle him. The thing had burned to death before it crossed Loki's mind that perhaps he was overreacting.

He had trouble sleeping that night, wondering: If he had done that so easily, how many others had died at his hand before he found himself in Manhattan with no memory?

Rachel was there, every night, to comfort him without questions.

Until one day she wasn't.

Paper littered the floor upon Loki's entry to the apartment he now thought of as _theirs._

Fluff was everywhere – fluff from the couch he'd slept on so many nights, now slashed to pieces. In the corner, the Mickey Mouse mug, shattered, beside Rachel's few other dishes and silverware.

Loki's heart crashed into his ribs. Had he ever been this frightened, Before?

He flew to their bedroom, literally flew, though just a few feet. Noted for later: Another power. His own magic often surprised him like that, appearing when he needed it most.

The bed was in the same state as the couch. Rachel's few possessions were strewn around… the computer was gone…

As were all of Loki's possessions. His clothing, a watch he'd left on the dresser, his razor in the bathroom.

Whoever had done this had been looking for him.

As he searched he screamed Rachel's name. No answer, of course, they must have taken her… But there was something… a scent, a sinister scent.

Back in the living room he found it: Blood. On the piano keys.

_No. No, no, please_, but he couldn't imagine what god he was pleading to. None would listen to him, monster that he was.

"Rachel!"

He set his mind free, searching for her, for that light, fluttery mind he loved. The mind-reading didn't work at long distances. _Please, let her be close._

His search radius was quickly extended as far as it could go. Not far, not far enough, they'd have her miles away by now…

But there. He heard her. Felt her.

It was her, her mental "voice," though he would not have recognized her mind if he had not been specifically searching for it. There was no happiness there, no joy. Pain and terror, that was all.

The fire escape was where he found her. Practically where they'd first met. She had crawled out, bleeding, and somehow made it down ten flights of stairs before he landed at her side, caught her up in his arms, held her while she cried.

A flash of that familiar joy burst through her mind once she recognized him, relieving him immensely. He did not know what they, whoever they were, had done to her, but the turmoil she was projecting had been so thick he'd been afraid they had ruined her – tortured her until her mind, her self, was destroyed. It was possible; he'd been at the torturing end of that scenario more than once.

Her face was a bloody mess, one eye swollen shut, her mouth a giant purple bruise. Worse were her hands.

Loki had to breathe deep to keep from crying himself when he saw them.

Crushed, completely. Probably they had stuck her hands on the piano keys and slammed the lid down on them. It's what he would have done if he wanted to wreck the life of a pianist.

She would be lucky to keep the hands. Some of the fingers might need to be amputated. She would never play again.

Worst was the knowledge that he couldn't help her. All the magic, all the spells and powers he'd acquired – none of them would help the slightest bit in healing her.

Fool. Idiot. He had so many enemies. Hell, he'd acquired thirty this week; surely he must have thousands more out there from Before, looking for him. They'd found him. He just hadn't been home. How could he have failed to put some kind of protection on the apartment? Their lives, Rachel's and his, had been so separate, or so he'd thought. He'd assumed too much. Assumed it was possible to have a separate life of murder and mayhem by day, love and comfort by night.

Rachel was crying, shaking. In shock.

She tried to say something. He leaned close. Terrible to admit, but it was true – he didn't want to read her mind. Having skimmed the surface, he couldn't bear to see, to _know_ what they'd done to her.

"They said… they said you were needed. They said to give this to you. You'd know what it meant."

Her eyes dropped toward a necklace he hadn't noticed, dangling across her chest. A medallion, really. One side bore his name in the language of Asgard, which Loki read without noticing he had never seen it before. The other side bore the picture of a goat. It meant nothing to him. But he didn't want it touching her. It went into his pocket.

He carried her the rest of the way down the escape, hating her grunts of pain at each step. The hospital staff were easily convinced that he was her husband and that she had injured herself moving furniture. A ludicrous story. They wouldn't have bought it, but he helped their pathetic brains along without a shred of hesitation, frantic to see her treated.

The verdict: She would recover. Nine of the fingers could be saved – the right pinky would go – and she'd be in surgery for hours.

Time enough for Loki to track down whoever had done this.

Magical residue lay in swaths all over the apartment. Probably all traceable, but slowly. The medallion had to be the most important clue.

It was covered in Rachel's blood. The sight of it, the reminder, almost undid him; he sank to the floor, back against the wall, breathing hard. Gods. The tipped-over piano bench brought back the memory of the first time he'd kissed her; her too-thin, bird-boned arms pressed against his chest. He'd thought, then, that she looked frail. That same frail little body had been in someone else's hands, malicious, crushing hands. No doubt it was some hired demon thug – three feet taller than Rachel, five times heavier. How frightened she must have been.

The few magical artifacts and materials he had that would help with a spell to unwind the medallion's secrets had all been taken. He would have to use his own magic alone.

An hour of chanting and pressing his will upon the medallion, and he knew he had it. A blue aura shone around it, soft as fog, bright as a firefly. It needed only a catalyst.

With his own teeth he tore his wrist open and let the blood flow over the polished bronze. The pain was nothing, literally nothing to him; he was unaware of it.

Heat. The medallion was burning. Burning his hand, his eyes, his brain.

And Loki remembered.

All of it.

Who he was – "really important," indeed.

What he was. A frost giant, an Asgardian, Laufeyson, Odinson, but more than that. A wizard. A fiend.

A god.

A god on the run, but a god.

How right Rachel had been.

On second glance, with his real eyes unclouded by humanity, he found the signature of the Aurlochs, an Order with which he'd had some dealing on Earth – musclebound cretins, the lot of them – unmistakable. They hadn't covered their trail at all. He was needed, they'd said, and they had expected him to find them.

Who sent the medallion? Not the Aurlochs, surely, they weren't smart enough, but someone giving orders who knew of his situation. Someone who wanted something from him, no doubt. Nobody ever gave him anything for free, except Rachel.

Loki knew he was a different man now, and he reflected with his fresh new mind on that girl. Human.

His brother had fallen in love with a human, and Loki had laughed and laughed. Threatened to kill her (or worse) to torment poor, dumb Thor. As if Loki would have bothered tracking down some mortal.

Then, anyway.

Now… Loki could understand Thor's reaction to the threat.

He understood equally well that Rachel and he were not meant to be together. That today was the day she'd feared: The day he remembered who he was and disappeared without a trace.

Not just for himself. His feelings for her were confused, muddled – he was seeing her through the eyes of the Loki who had lived in this apartment, who had made love to her a hundred times, who had been damaged, empty.

Loki was not that man anymore. He was not… He was fairly certain, anyway… that he was not in love with the girl, friend or not.

But.

She had helped him, and he would remember.

And that promise. A promise to say goodbye. He would honor that as well.

Hours later, sensing she was awake, he teleported into her room without ceremony, wearing his full suit of green armor.

Her whole body jumped at his appearance, and she ground her teeth and moaned at the damage the movement did to her recently-set bones.

No words, though, Loki noted.

What had he expected from her? Accusations? For leaving her, for getting her hurt, for scaring her? Yes, he supposed he had. Loki had never learned to trust people, with sound reasons, and he couldn't be expected to put hundreds of years of habit away for the one good, trustworthy person he knew.

"Rachel Honeycutt," he said. His voice would be different to her. The voice of a god, not a man. The appearance of a god. She would know, she would understand.

"Loki." Her tear-filled eyes swept him up and down. "I knew you were something special."

"There are three more things you should know," he said, keeping himself cool, never going near her. Imagine if he were tempted to comfort her. To kiss her.

"I'm listening," she said.

"First: The men and creatures that did this to you are dead. There was a misunderstanding; they were sent to seek me, and thought you were my plaything. They believed I would not mind them meddling with a mortal, that I would understand you were in the way. They imagined that letting you live was all I could reasonably expect. I have corrected these misapprehensions."

If he had hoped she would smile – even he didn't know what he hoped for from her – he was disappointed. Of course; Rachel couldn't be made happy by the thought of other people suffering. Not even the monsters who had tortured her into the hospital.

"Second: I owe you a debt."

"You don't – " she began, but he cut her off with intentional rudeness.

"I do. And I pay my debts. Within twenty-four hours a woman will appear at this door. Old, with red hair and a black cloak. This woman owes _me_ a debt. Do as she orders you. Your hands will heal, as will your other wounds. Your finger will regrow within the turn of the moon. You will play piano again."

A shudder went through her. Relief rolled out of her mind in heavy waves. However hesitant she had been to accept his counterfeit money, this was one gift, Loki knew, she could not refuse.

"Third."

He hesitated. The words would not come.

"Third… you have been… my friend. Thank you, Rachel Honeycutt. That is another debt I owe you, in addition to your help. For that…"

Clack. Clack. His metal boots echoed on the hard hospital tile as he approached the bedside stand. Upon it he placed the medallion – altered, small as a coin and silver now, and woven through with Loki's own magic.

"If you ever need me again – and this will only work once – place a drop of your blood upon this coin. Turn it in your hand three times and say my name. I will come. Once."

She understood. He could feel it. She also understood that he was not going to say one word of love, drop one affectionate gesture upon her. He could not afford it. Neither, obviously, could she.

Look what his love had brought her.

"You were my friend too, you know," she said, her swollen lip cracking with the effort of speaking. Loki winced inside. Outside, he remained an armored statue. "I guess I owe you for that. So know, Mister Knight in Shining Armor…" she laughed, and he couldn't resist a tiny smile. "If you're ever in trouble again, you can come to me, and I'll be there for you too, okay? Not sure how you'll find me. I don't have a magic coin and I'm changing my phone number after this. But if you find me…"

"I will," Loki said. "Remember, Rachel: I found you once already, without knowing so much as your name. The details are not important, but when I fell, that day you found me, I sent out a call. Like a magnet, I suppose. I knew I would need help, wherever I landed. I knew I would be weakened, damaged, though I could not know how much. So the spell I cast sent me to the person, any person, who would help me best. You were chosen, Rachel. Thank you for being that person."

"Thank you for saying goodbye."

Apparently unable to hold back any longer, Rachel let her tears flow.

That was Loki's cue to leave.

He had a kingdom to rewin.

**###**

**The End. Thank you for reading. Always review. **

**Love, darkwinggirl  
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	5. Sequel - Wrecked

**A/N: Hello, readers of "Damaged"! The sequel is finally up. This is a preview - the first half of the first chapter. Enjoy, and thanks again for sticking with this story!**

In the year since Loki left her, Rachel had considered using the coin many times. Silly impulses, for the most part. They came when she was off her guard. Like when she woke in the middle of the night and stretched out a casual arm, expecting it to fall across Loki's cool, narrow ribcage, only to find herself alone in bed.

Or when practicing for work, watching her short fingers twinkle along the piano keys. She'd smile at the memory of Loki's long, rake-thin body perched beside her on the bench, boyish fascination glowing from his sculpted features, and consider calling him back for one more session.

Or when she walked alone at night and caught a glimpse of someone, any old most-likely-harmless person, closer than two blocks away. She'd remember the attack she'd suffered in her apartment, and her blood would scream in her ears: _Use it! They can't hurt you if he's here!_

But Loki was a god. A real one. And he'd promised the coin would only work once. So Rachel had treasured it, saved it for a true time of need, an emergency only magic could solve. It was a genie's lamp with two wishes used up, and its final use had to be a good one.

The time came.

Rachel's brother Rob lay on a hospital bed, surrounded by a nurses and a crash cart, quietly dying.

He'd been unconscious for a month, ever since Loki's attack on Manhattan, actually. One of the Leviathan monsters had tried to make a sharp turn near the apartment Rachel and her brother shared, and it had grazed the building. A piece of rebar, pulled down with immense force by the weight of a refrigerator-sized chunk of concrete, had sliced through Rob's waist from behind like a scythe, severing his spine, all his lower back muscles, and his intestines.

Still, Rachel had waited, because for a time, the surgeons had been hopeful. Her brother wouldn't walk again, but he would likely survive, since he'd gotten through the critical first forty-eight hours.

But infection set in.

Staring at the thin ring of scar tissue around her pinky finger, the digit that had regrown from a stump in two weeks, thanks to Loki's interference, Rachel decided it was time to use her wish. She'd get one more medical miracle.

One more glimpse of that ghostly skin, those ancient green eyes.

She pricked her thumb and rubbed the coin with her blood, front and back.

Turned it in her hand three times.

Said the magic word: "Loki."

And nothing happened.

Nothing at all.

The hallway grew cold as she waited, an hour, two, Rob was cresting, his heartbeat reappearing again and again, there was still time…

But Loki had told one more lie.

He never came.

And Rachel's brother died.

Should it have been a surprise that Loki had failed to keep his promise? There was no pretending, now, that Rachel didn't know exactly what he was. _The_ Loki. God of Mischief, God of Lies, mass murderering psychopath.

Maybe he was dead. Executed for his crimes.

She'd seen the cell phone footage – everybody had – of Loki in chains and muzzle, heartbreaking gaze fixed on his enormous blonde brother, just before they'd burst into the sky in a snap of rainbow light.

Rachel doubted it, though. She'd gotten herself good and educated on Norse mythology, and knew that the Aesir court denizens forgave Loki's mischief as regularly as they passed the salt.

The rejection stung; the disappointment left her mouth dry and sour-tasting.

It was like two deaths instead of one.

Still, Rachel didn't miss work that night. Missing performances, no matter how good the excuse, was career suicide on Broadway. Especially in the orchestra pit, where a pianist was as easy to replace as a violin string. Plus, work was a welcome distraction.

The show was _My Fair Lady_, and it pushed three hours. Three hours in the pit, staring at the black-and-white notes, the black-and-white keys.

Rachel made it two and a half hours, then grief and exhaustion set in. There was a warping, swirling sensation, and all the white turned green. The black pooled into a set of small, bottomless pupils set in emerald eyes. There was a muffled scream. A ripping pain in her shoulders.

The fit passed, and Rachel found herself being pulled to her feet by the cellist. She'd fainted in the middle of "Get Me to the Church on Time," which was, thank god, a loud and busy enough song that it could handle a dropped piano part.

Her alternate made it to the bench before "Without You," and she was sent home, shaking and nauseated, crying quietly.

On the subway, it happened again.

Green everywhere. Eyes. That scream, a desperate, crunching, back-of-the-throat sound, the sound a movie chainsaw victim might make if her mouth were covered in duct tape. Again, there was the ripping sensation in Rachel's shoulders, and this time it spread to the back of her head.

Instinctively, Rachel wrenched forward, away from the pain, and she regained consciousness on her feet in the middle of the subway car. At least she'd waked in time for her stop.

At night, the sensation came three more times. Worse each time – the screams more gut-churning, the pain more acute, as if she were being flayed, and the eyes burning further into her.

Pleading, manic, tear-filled eyes.

Each time the wave of sensation came, she tensed and fought, yanked herself from the hallucination, and came back to reality panting and sweating.

It could have been a side effect of the accumulated trauma of the last month, the last year. A reaction to the awful minutes on the phone with her parents, telling them about Rob, the loss of hope.

But she knew it wasn't.

This was magic. She knew its scent now. Magic gone wrong. The useless coin still sat in her pajama pocket, warm to the touch, and she considered throwing it out the window.

Instead, she went to sleep with it clutched in her fist.

Asleep and dreaming, she was unprepared for the next wave of pain. It swamped her, confused her, and her swimming brain seemed to spin. Instead of staring into those desperate eyes, she seemed to be staring out of them; she saw herself, as if in a mirror.

Had she always looked like this? So thin and small and frightened, so lost?

The pain wracked her; she lurched forward, towards her own image, and her image reached towards her, as frantic for relief as she was.

She felt a rush like warm wind, and a pop, like she'd stepped through a barrier, thin as a soap bubble.

Then she was whole again.

The pain had passed; she was standing up, and staring out of her own eyes.

But the green eyes hadn't vanished. They stayed in front of her, wide, red-veined, swollen with insanity.

Loki's eyes.

She was with him.

Too late. Too late for Rob, for her wish, but here was Loki, pressed against her, face to face, belly to belly, toe to toe, and her hands were on his cheeks.

Their foreheads touched. Loki's skin, though cool, was soaked in sweat, and as Rachel pulled back, he slumped forward, exhausted.

Rachel took in her surroundings. Gasped.

The scale of the place nearly sent her to her knees.

She stood on the center of a polished obsidian dais which appeared to be a mile wide. Pillars the size of the Statue of Liberty towered on either side of her. Chains stretched from them – one to each of Loki's wrists, pulling his arms wide, exposing his bare chest. A third chain extended from the ceiling, hundreds of feet above them, attached to a metal collar around his neck.

They were underground, in a cavern large enough to hold Manhattan and all its skyscrapers. Indeed, it seemed to be filled with mountains. Rachel and Loki were at the top of the tallest one, in the middle of the cavern, and other mountains, slightly lower, surrounded them. Each had a flattened top and two pillars. Rachel couldn't see far enough to be sure, but she would have bet that between each set of pillars stood a prisoner like Loki.

The pillars were torches; wide red flames at the top of each one lit the enclosed space, and their smoke mostly hid the distant stone sky.

Rachel took all this in quickly, then her focus was back on the man in front of her. The god, the Aesir, the prisoner.

He was a ruin. A shadow of the man he'd been when she knew him; in far worse shape than he'd been in even on the day they met. Then, he'd been bruised, sore, hollowed out with sorrow, confused by his fall, but whole.

The man in front of her was in shreds. Was nearly dead. Would be better off dead.

* * *

><p><strong>End of preview. :-) ...For the rest of this chapter, and the rest of "Wrecked," go to my profile.<strong>


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